


it turns night right into day

by WordsAreScribbles



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Soft boys bein' soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsAreScribbles/pseuds/WordsAreScribbles
Summary: Spot raised an eyebrow. "Cut the crap, Higgins, I see you at Sheepshead every weekend.""Oh, that," Race chuckled. "Well, there's no tracks in Manhattan! 'Sides, you're really gonna ban me from comin' to see you now?"Spot was taken aback, and felt his face heat up. "What d'ya' mean 'comin' to see me'?"





	it turns night right into day

**Author's Note:**

> DEDICATED TO SPOT CONLON!

It was just a little gift. No big thing, just a little somethin' he'd found lyin' around, didn't even give it a second thought. _Just made me think a' you._ No, no, it didn't make him think of nothin'. Just didn't have anything better to do with it. What the hell was Spot gonna do with a box of cigars? Smoke 'em? Spot Conlon doesn't smoke. Well... Not usually. Sometimes he does. But definitely not these kind! That's why he's giving the cigars to him. That's the only reason.  
  
' _And Spot Conlon doesn't need an excuse to go to Manhattan._ ' He thought as he crossed over the bridge, holding the box firmly at his side. Who even likes Manhattan? Not him. Least of all them Manhattan boys, always jumpin' around and actin' like dumbasses. Least, _least_ of all Racetrack Higgins. The kid spends too much in Sheepshead, bettin' on the ponies. That's in Spot's territory, and he'll be damned if some towhead pretty-boy is gonna take it from him. So... If he wants to get rid a' Race, why's he givin' him the cigars? Yeah, what the hell is he doin'? He should just turn back now.  
  
He keeps walking, navigating his way through the streets, newly serene as sunset falls over the city. His steps fall heavy against the cobblestone streets, calling his attention to the situation at hand. It's eight in the evening and he's on his way to give a box of cigars to a boy he's never talked to before on the other side of the city. It's nerve-wracking, and he doesn't know why. He's suddenly very aware of his face and his hair. Does he look okay? He raises a calloused hand to to wipe the dirt off his cheek, and can't shake the feeling that he just ended up spreading it around more. He sighs. Great.  
  
He's pulled out of his thoughts as the building he's looking for suddenly looms over him. The Manhattan Newsboy's Lodging House. It's a lot taller than he expected. How many a' these kids are in there? And how is he gonna find Race? Does he knock or should he just walk in? Should he risk wakin' a bunch of 'em up? Maybe he should just come back in the morning...  
  
"Spot Conlon?" A reedy, distant voice called from up above him. Spot looked up, squinting at the bright moon behind the figure. A wave of relief - and anxiety - washed over him as he saw who had called.  
  
"Spot Conlon! I'll be damned!" Racetrack continued, smiling brighter than the stars above him. He was standing on the top level of the fire escape, precariously leaning against the metal enclosure, puffing on a stogie as always. "Get up here!"  
  
Spot paused a second, before nodding curtly, making his way towards the ladder. He was very aware of Race watching him the whole while he climbed up the fire escape, clumsily having to use one hand to grab the metal, gripping the box of cigars in his other. He hopes he doesn't look stupid. As he reached the top level, he felt Race's hand reach out and grab his to pull him up. Instinctively, he quickly pulled his hand away, and immediately regretted it as he saw Race's face fall ever-so-slightly. He silently kicks himself for that.  
  
Once both of Spot's feet are securely on the escape, he doesn't know what to do. Race was leaning on his elbows against the metal side, smiling and exhaling smoke, looking up at the stars. Spot follows his gaze and spies the Big Dipper in the night sky. Them Manhattan boys got a pretty good view from here.  
  
"Pretty, huh?" Race said, peaking over at Spot from the corner of his eye. "No wonder Jack loves it up here. He ain't around tonight, so I figured I should take the opportunity, huh?"  
  
"Uh, yeah." Spot agreed blankly. Why was he here again? His gaze was pulled to his company once more as the boy brought his cigar to his lips. That's right.  
  
"Hey, I, uh," Race looked up curiously, eyebrows raised. Spot swallowed, and continued. "I broughts you, uh... Here." He straight-armed thrusted the box out in front of the younger boy, who looked at it in confusion. Spot could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Why was he taking so long to take the box? Just take it! This was the longest two seconds in recorded human history.  
  
"What's this?" Race questioned, taking the package from Spot and looking at it suspiciously. Spot raised an eyebrow. What, did he think he was gonna give him a bomb or somethin'? Race shook the box gently, and upon hearing the sound of the little bundles hitting the top of the wood, he seemed to light up. He quickly open it, and smiled with pure joy.  
  
"Coronas!" The taller boy exclaimed, eyes wide. Spot couldn't help but crack a grin at that reaction. Well, this is going better than he could'a hoped. "Man, I thought you was tryin' ta' give me a bomb or somethin'!"  
  
Spot snorted, amused, crossing his arms. "Why would ya' think that?"  
  
"There's no label," Race gestured to the box. He beamed at Spot. "Who'd ya' steal these from, anyway?"  
  
"I didn't steal 'em!" Spot retorted, looking away. He definitely stole them.  
  
"Sure," Race giggled. Boy, Spot wished he could see him better. Why'd he think doin' this at night was a good idea again? "Whatever ya' say, Conlon."  
  
Spot leaned on his back against the balcony as he watched Race stub out his current stogie and light a new one from the box, getting frustrated at it for not lighting easily. It was almost cute. Uh. Cute, as in, like, pathetic. Not _cute_ , cute. Jesus Christ. Pull it together, Conlon. He watched as his companion took a drag and sighed, contentedly. He couldn't help but wonder why this kid wasn't more...scared? Most people were scared a' him -  but Race wasn't. And he's...kinda nice to be around. Not mention, he ain't too bad on the eyes. Spot often thought of him as a pretty-boy type, but he really kinda is a pretty boy.  
  
"So!" Race interrupted his thoughts. "What brings you here this time of night, huh, Spotty?"  
  
 _Spotty?_ "Nothin'. Jus' wanted ta' give you these, is all," Spot said, looking down at his feet. Wait, wait, no, he has to have an excuse for bein' here, he can't just be here for that. "And, ta'...tell you to stay outta Brooklyn."  
  
 _Damnit, Conlon._  
  
"What are ya' talkin' about? I ain't been to Brooklyn in forever!" Race refuted.  
  
Spot raised an eyebrow. "Cut the crap, Higgins, I see you at Sheepshead every weekend."  
  
"Oh, that," Race chuckled. "Well, there's no tracks in Manhattan! 'Sides, you're really gonna ban me from comin' to see you now?"  
  
Spot was taken aback, and felt his face heat up. "What d'ya' mean 'comin' to see me'?"  
  
"Well, ya' got me the cigars!" Race gestured with the one rested in between his fingers. "I gotta pay the favor back eventually! I'm a man of equity, don't'cha know?"  
  
 _Pay the favor back...how?_   
  
"Fine. You can come to Brooklyn, but only for _me_. Don't go nowhere else." It was only after he said it that Spot realized what it sounded like. Christ.  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it." Race smirked at him.  
  
Suddenly, they were both interrupted by a tired groan coming from the window below the escape they were stood on. Race swallowed hard and shut up, staring intensely at Spot to give him the message to do the same. The noise stopped, and Race sighed in relief.  
  
"Christ... Spot, I hate to kick ya' to the curb, but,"  Race's face seemed to fall a bit. "If any of the guys see me out here with you, they're gonna think I'm tryin' ta' get a spot in Brooklyn...to sell papes, an' all. You gotta split."  
  
Spot nodded, and began to make his way back towards the ladder.  
  
"Hey," Race called his attention again, and Spot stopped to look at him. Race smiled. "See ya' around, Spotty."  
  
Spot felt himself smirk a bit. "You too. Racey."  
  
He could'a sworn he saw the other newsie's cheeks flush. They shared a moment of peaceful silence before bidding each other final farewells, and Spot began his journey back over the bridge and back to Brooklyn. He couldn't help but think of Race crossing over this bridge too someday, excited to see Spot and pay him back for those cigars. Maybe he wouldn't walk back over the bridge, back to Manhattan, 'til the next day. The thought of it made Spot's cheeks burn.  
  
Soon, Brooklyn made her way back into Spot's sights, and suddenly, he was passed out in his cot, hat over his eyes, dreaming of cigars.

**Author's Note:**

> on some level, i feel a part 2 is in order. on another, much more real level, i know im nEver gonna write it


End file.
